A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,34

how utterly wretched she would feel if she allowed herself to believe that Northcott might have an interest in her, only to discover that he did not. A young lady would be very foolish indeed to imagine that a duke might want her, when other, lesser men, in London had not.

The two girls continued back to Primrose Cottage, with Jane chattering happily the whole way. Mary found that she could not muster the energy to join in, but, thankfully, Jane was the type of girl who could carry on whole conversations alone.

Mrs Mifford pounced on her two daughters the moment they walked through the door. Her eyes raked Mary from top to toe--perhaps searching for remnants of the rotten vegetables she imagined the villagers had thrown at her--and her mouth was twisted with worry.

"Did anyone see you?" she hissed, clutching at Mary's arm with a surprisingly strong grip for one so small.

"Plenty," Jane answered, to which Mrs Mifford answered with a wail of despair.

"Oh," she held a hand to her brow, "What was I thinking letting you go out? I should never have let you talk me into it, Jane."

For the second time that day, Mrs Mifford had rewritten the script of how the past had played out to her own liking--this time with Jane as the villain of the piece. Mary stifled a sigh and was about to correct her mother, but Jane spoke before she had a chance.

"I'd say about a half-dozen souls were there, when the Duchess of Northcott stopped to ask Mary to tea."

"The Duchess of Northcott invited you to tea?"

Mrs Mifford's head turned so quickly that Mary inwardly marvelled that it did not fly off her neck and through the window. Her eyes, blue like Mary's own, were wide and filled with hope--the very hope that Mary had just tried to quash within herself.

Oh dear, Mary thought, as she nervously chewed on her lip. It was easy to talk herself out of believing that the Duke of Northcott was interested in her, for she was, at heart, a sensible and practical girl--traits she had inherited from her father. Her mother was prone to flights of fancy, and if she even so much as suspected that Northcott held a candle for Mary, she would try her best to fan that flame into a burning inferno, not caring who might be burned in the process.

"I believe that she wished to show her support for me," Mary answered, stiffly, "His Grace has taken on the yoke of the investigation into Mr Parsims' death, and believes me innocent. He is fastidiously committed to his duties."

"I wonder would he be so committed, if his duty did not involve a pretty young woman?" Mrs Mifford pondered, to which Mary did not reply.

Instead, hoping to distract, she explained to her mother what she and Northcott had discovered so far, finishing with the invitation that had been extended to the Hargreaves to visit upon their return from Evesham.

"His Grace should be present when they call," Mrs Mifford decided, as Mary finished speaking.

"If only we knew when that would be," Mary replied; the Hargreaves might not return until the evening.

"Yes," Mrs Mifford continued, deaf to Mary's point, "We should send word to him to come at once. You girls may entertain him by playing on the pianoforte while we wait. Or, perhaps, you might sing for him, Mary--he'd like that."

Mary and Jane glanced at each other in horror; if their mother's plan was to come to fruition, it would have the very opposite effect of what she hoped for. If Northcott was to hear Mary sing--a sound not unlike a bag of cats being drowned, according to the honest assessment of all her sisters--he would never look at her with anything other than revulsion again.

"Perhaps it's best if Northcott does not hear Mary sing," Jane demurred, "He might believe her capable of murder after all."

Mary did not take offence; sisters could always be counted upon to give an honest assessment of one's talents, or lack thereof. And it was better to have one's pride injured privately by a sister than face public ridicule from strangers.

"Don't be silly, dear," Mrs Mifford scolded her second born, "Mary sings like a bird."

"A goose?" Jane suggested, but Mrs Mifford roundly ignored her.

"We shall send Nora to the manor at once," Mrs Mifford decided aloud.

"But it's going to rain," Mary argued, for outside dark clouds had begun to gather, but her mother simply shrugged in reply.

"A little rain never